


Midnight Musings, or A Murder Ménagerie, or The Price of Floor Bacon

by sagiow



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: 10 year reunion, F/M, Mansion House Murder Party, Pillow Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:20:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26679616
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow
Summary: Yes dear your evil laugh is utterly diabolical and will definitely strike terror into the hearts of all your enemies, now come to bed.
Relationships: Eliza Foster/Byron Hale
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Midnight Musings, or A Murder Ménagerie, or The Price of Floor Bacon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/gifts).
  * Inspired by [A Mansion House Murder](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23384296) by [BroadwayBaggins](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BroadwayBaggins/pseuds/BroadwayBaggins), [Fericita](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fericita/pseuds/Fericita), [MercuryGray](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MercuryGray/pseuds/MercuryGray), [middlemarch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch), [sagiow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sagiow/pseuds/sagiow), [tortoiseshells](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tortoiseshells/pseuds/tortoiseshells). 



> Takes place after Chapter 6 of A Mansion House Murder

“Did you see their faces?” 

There was a note in her husband’s voice, a pitch, rather, that made Eliza Hale hold the count of brushstrokes halfway through her unpinned hair to look at the matching eager reflection in the vanity’s mirror. It was a lovely mirror, she had to admit, in its ornate Italianate style: Mrs Squivers did have a fine eye for furnishings. She tried to recall what this room had been, a decade and a half ago, before it has been smothered in crisp wallpaper, plush carpeting, and an extravagantly paneled bed that would not have been out of place in one of Victor Emmanuel’s Venetian villas, which then made her wonder on, that how it was, exactly, that a financially challenged Reconstruction family would have managed to find such treasures, and then chosen to exhibit them in their struggling hotel, of all places. 

The no-longer-so-eager figure in the mirror had slumped somewhat over the delays brought along by such musings, and she returned it her attention, along with a sparkling smile. “Whose in particular, dear?” 

As always, it was all it took to return Byron to his previous ebullience, and sit upright in the bed. “Anyone’s! All of them! They looked like a pack of raccoons interrupted mid-refuse feast in that parlour!” 

She had to hand it to him, the image was as evocative as it was accurate. “Well, you do strike quite the different image from when they last saw you.” _And now even more so,_ she mentally added, the discarded eyepatch on the bed stand, the wooden prosthesis on the floor next to it. 

“Perhaps,” he said, reaching for a glass bottle, “but you should’ve seen them when we went to the kitchen afterwards. That was something else.” 

“More than red-handed racoons?” 

“Oh, yes. Possums. Vultures. No, hyenas!” Empathically, he poured a heavy dose of liniment into his hand, the pungent aroma immediately filling the room as he vigorously rubbed it into his sore stump. “The whole time, Foster glared at me like I peed in his morning porridge. Hopkins was no better: he'd sneak squinty glances continuously but then would stare at his feet and stammer the moment I’d turn to him.” 

For what she expected to be quite different reasons, she found herself squinting as well. “Weren’t you men supposed to be evaluating the dead one rather than each other?” 

“We were. They couldn’t. Only Diggs was worth anything in that moment. He was always the best man here.” 

“Did he find anything?” she risked to ask. 

“No, the light was too poor, and a few of the staff were buzzing about, so thankfully, he took charge of that. I convinced the others to lock Bullen up into a side room until tomorrow, when we can do a proper autopsy. We all had a shot of whisky in his memory, then another to erase it, and called it a day. I say we do too, my love.” 

With a final slap to his leg, Byron capped the bottle and pulled the covers down. The count now helplessly lost, Eliza abandoned the brush and joined him; without bidding, he reached over to plait her hair in a loose braid. All these years ago, it had been yet one more surprise in their irregular courtship when he had shown a secret mastery in the art of capillary creations, yet one more practical application of his impressive surgical dexterity. There was not a day where she was not imminently thankful that the artillery blast had spared him his wonderous hands. 

She was taken from her captivating mental list of all the other wonderous things his hands could achieve by a breathy chuckle, rising from the depth of his belly. “Oh, their shocked, stupid faces...” The chuckle turned to gleeful laughter. She humored him as he cackled along until her hair was at last tied with a flourishing bow. 

“Yes dear, your evil laugh is utterly diabolical and will definitely strike terror into the hearts of all your enemies, now can we please go to bed.” 

He wiped at his eyes. “Honestly, if you’d told me back in the hospital in Selma that this glorious scene would happen, I think that would’ve put me back on my feet much quicker.” 

" _Foot_ , darling.” She tossed her head and scoffed. “And quicker than my agreement to finally marry you? How very vexing.” 

“Of course not, my love! You gave me the greatest reason to live, my wildest dream made life. But Jed Foster’s angry goldfish face would have given me added incentive.” 

“Was that not the incentive for your proposal to begin with?” she replied, a mischievous angle to her eyebrow. 

“Again, of course not!” he purred, his fingers tracing as he spoke the length of cotton on her arm, the lace at her breast. “I admit it might’ve been to get us... better acquainted, that first time in Placerville, but everything that followed, our marriage, our life, no, that’s purely your doing.” He reached the bare skin at her throat, still managing to make her breath catch underneath. “Your total and utter bewitching of me.” 

He leaned over to kiss the smirk from her lips. “But what about you?” he asked, suddenly solemn, holding her chin to gauge her expression. “How did it feel, to see his face again?” 

She pondered it, taking in the one before her, the unsightly scars across the empty socket. She might have flinched once, all those years ago, but it was now no more foreign than the greying full beard below it, the thinning hair above. 

“Irritating,” she answered, without as much as a blink, “until he started getting flushed from learning all about us and your splendid posting. Then it was absolutely lovely in its lividity.” 

Her husband’s pride placated, she continued, never leaving his gaze. “How was it, seeing Anne?” 

“Anne who?” he asked innocently. 

“Morris, apparently. Frederick Morris. A wealthy New Yorker of which she is now the much grieving widow.” 

He shrugged. “I’m sorry to hear that; I only wish her well. But to be honest, I barely saw her or the others. My eyes never left you.” 

“ _Eye_ , Byron,” she sighed as she rolled hers. “And you are a terrible liar. I saw you ogle each and every one of these ladies.” 

“Perhaps, but only to confirm that they have all aged most terribly.” His hand dropped to take hers, and clutch it emphatically to his chest. “Whereas you, my Aphrodite! The years only make you more beautiful. I take it back: _every_ eye in that room was on you, not just mine.” 

A bit heavy-handed, but not untrue. “Perhaps, but I expect they were mostly on my pistol.” 

“Perhaps. That was indeed unnerving.” 

“Well, so were today’s events!” she snapped back, attempting to pull her hand away, but finding it locked in his iron grasp. “I expect I might be forgiven packing a little personal protection... and an extra bottle of sherry.” 

“Always, my Artemis.” Leaning back against the headboard, he pulled her to him, her back against his chest, his arms around her, the soothing motion of his hands, making any escape impossible, and less and less desirable. “How did that go, by the way?" he inquired. "Your little chat with Mrs. Morris and Foster?” 

It was her turn to shrug, and settle back into his embrace “Oh, terribly tense and awkward, as you would expect. Mrs. Foster was civil enough, but quite succinct in her answers; I expect she would have bolted from the room if her leg had allowed it. And Mrs. Morris was oddly protective of her. She barked the worst when I poked a bit too close for her companion’s comfort. But oh! You should’ve seen them when I suggested we use our Christian names as our married ones might prove _too_ _confusing_ _from our shared h_ _istory_.” 

Without as much as a glance, she could tell his eye had widened proportionally to the emphasis she had put on these last words. “You did not.” 

“Oh, I did. And it was glorious. You could hear the gears in their minds spinning the whole time through, debating which was worse: to be on first name basis with me, or to keep throwing our husbands’ names – past and present- continuously into the conversation. A most painful dilemma! I even joked that they made it sound like I was asking them to choose between getting typhus and diphtheria!” 

“ _You did not_.” 

At the quizzical look she shot him over her shoulder, he recoiled into the pillow. “God, Eliza... don't tell me you did not know that Mary had typhus; it's what led to her dismissal from Mansion House! And that Anne nursed her fiancé through diphtheria before he was killed in the Crimea!” 

“Oh.” She bit her lower lip. “ _Oh_ , that explains it.” 

“Explains what, now?!” he asked against his better judgement. 

“Well, why Mrs. Morris suddenly snapped, smashed her glass, and half-dragged a sobbing, limping Mrs. Foster out of the room. I did not understand it then but now.... well, honestly, what were the odds?” 

Her inquisitive expression was met by one of horrified bewilderment, and after a moment, she cackled. “Speaking of shocked, stupid faces... you should see yours, dear. No, _I did not._ None of it. I was a model of cheerful, pleasant kindness the whole evening through and they actually enjoyed themselves, although I am sure you will never hear them admit it. They wanted to hate me so very much, but I gave them no reason to do so: they were completely destabilized by it.” 

“So there was no sobbing? No smashing?” 

“Sadly, no, at least, not while I was there. It was all very infuriatingly polite and proper. We did not even finish the bottle.” 

“You are infuriatingly diabolical,” he sighed in relief, before tumbling her over, to her delight. “And even more infuriatingly irresistible, Eliza.” 

“Thankfully, also Mrs. Hale.” 

“As if that prevented anything before.” He kissed her again, fully, deeply, before hesitating once more, and pulling back in concern. “But truthfully, have you really no regrets in that regards? In everything that has come since? In coming back here, now?” 

She looked into his pale eye and was assaulted by memories past. So many miles travelled, by coach, by rail, by sail. So many words written, some nice, some naughty, the last a knife across the throat, a dagger through the heart. An Alabamian hospital, a bloody bed, a body half bandaged. The sun rising over the Joshua trees, setting over the Pacific Ocean. The house on Capitol Avenue, its fine parlor hosting distinguished guests; its garden, their own private oasis. The rocking horse, the wooden swing, the crystalline, bubbling laughter they elicited as the little blonde curls bounced and flew. Those curls, then so limp, so still, upon the down pillow, never to fly again. Their life, so very improbable, so lately won, and yet so oddly perfect, shattered to pieces. 

And now, a new trek. A new beginning. A final chance. 

A dead body in the basement. 

She shut her eyes, forcefully, quickly, and banished all these haunting images away, as she had done countless times before; when she opened them again, it was to meet her husband's with the same resolve, the same confidence, that had captivated him once, and held him captive since. He needed her to stay strong; she needed him to stay sane. 

“What good are regrets?” she said with the slightest shake of her head, the faintest curve upon her lips. “Let's just make tomorrow better.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Fericita posted the quote in the summary on tumblr and tagged that it was a very Haliza thing to say, so I said I'd write if she wrote a story including Leftover Ice Cones and Floor Bacon. She wonderfully (and promptly!) delivered Chapter 14 of "We run a very tight ship", so here's my end of the bargain.
> 
> We couldn't recall what Anne had nursed her fiancé through, and neither did a quick Google search, so I chose diphtheria out of total laziness.


End file.
